


Just Around Midnight

by spikesgirl58



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 01:23:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5072560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon and Illya have a very unusual stake out, but it's nothing compared to what happens next.  </p><p>Written for the 2015 Scrapbook Halloween Challenge</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Around Midnight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mrua7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrua7/gifts).



 

 

“There’s still some hot coffee in the thermos. If you have any complaints about our assignment, Napoleon, I suspect Mr. Waverly would be the man to ask.”  Illya dropped the binoculars long enough to rub his eyes.  “I had a very nice evening planned and it didn’t involve staking out a kirkyard... or you, either.”

“A what?”

“Sorry, graveyard.” Illya put the binoculars back up to his eyes.  “All I know is that Mr. Waverly wants us here observing.  I learned long ago not to question my superiors.”

Napoleon made a rude noise and reached for the thermos. “Where did you move it?”

“Move what?” Illya rubbed the back of his neck.  “And please stop poking me.”

“The thermos and I assure you, partner mine, if there was any poking involved, it wasn’t me. More like wishful thinking.  Your date with Margaret was all the talk this morning in the secretarial pool.”

“I won’t even ask.” Illya flexed his shoulders and passed the binoculars to Napoleon.  “You look for a while.  I’m going cross eyed.”  He picked up the thermos bottle and poured some coffee into the cap.  “Here’s your coffee.  Honestly, Napoleon, I have better things to do than serve you.”

Napoleon took the cup with a frown. “That’s weird.  I looked and it wasn’t…”  He shrugged it away and assumed watch.  “What am I looking for?”

“Anything out of place.”

“You mean like someone trying to break into a grave… well, a mausoleum, actually Two guys are actually trying that.”

“What?” Illya snatched the binoculars back and frowned.  “What’s wrong… why did you put the caps back on?  And how?  They were in my pocket.”

“I didn’t.”

Illya reassured himself that the lens caps were in his pocket and tried again and sighed. “This assignment is getting the best of me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m… never mind. Why would someone break into the Crypt of the Unforgiven?”

“The crypt of what, now?”

“Don’t you ever read the case files beforehand, Napoleon?”

“I prefer to go into an assignment fresh. First impressions and all that.”

“That explanation the reactions of many of the young ladies. The Crypt of the Unforgiven is quite literally a mass grave.”

“But it’s a crypt.”

“Yes, it is and if you keep interrupting, I won’t tell you the rest.” Napoleon mimed locking his mouth shut and Illya nodded.  “Fine.  Once there was a man,Ludovic Hambleton. He came here from Scotland, fleeing from the authorities.”

“May one ask why?” Illya adjusted the focus on the binoculars.  For some reason, it kept blurring.

“He was a bit of a religious fanatic and he was found guilty of killing many people in an effort to convert them over to his religion. His means were extreme: torture, exposure, starvation, anything he could think of that might make them see things his way.  Most of his victims died without converting.  The few who managed to survive and escape immediately notified the authorities.  Realizing that he’d made a grave error, Hambleton fled to America two steps ahead of Scotland Yard.”

“And we took him in knowing that?”

“Immigration had no idea. He changed his name to Lionel Hamilton and settled in the south.  Before too long, he was back to his old habits, but this time it was _re-educating_.” Illya made air quotes around the word. “Runaway slaves who were recaptured were turned over to him to prevent any future attempts.  While I’m sure some of them knew what Hambleton was up to, others were just naive and thought he was acting in their best interests.   There was thought that over a hundred men, women and children died at his hands and were buried in the Crypt of the Unforgiven, a carefully chosen plot on unsanctified ground.  Hambleton wanted to make sure they found no more peace in the afterlife than they’d had here.”

“Charming fellow. What happened to him?”

“He crossed the wrong men. One night he was coming home from a party and a group of slaves were waiting for him.  I’ll spare you the details, but they found part of Hambleton chained to a tree.”

“Part?”

“The rest was found about a mile away, chained to a pair of work horses.”

“Ehhh…” Napoleon shook his head and shuddered.  “That’s pretty extreme.”

“Entertainingly enough, he was buried in the Crypt of the Unforgiven. The mob was never identified and since Hambleton had died alone and with no will, they didn’t know what else to do with him.  When they opened up his mansion, many in the community was sickened by what they discovered and deemed it was just punishment to turn him over to his victims for eternity.  Rumor had it that a fortune was buried with him, but that’s just hearsay.”

“Tough crowd.” Napoleon took the binoculars back and studied the activity.  “And now someone is digging him up?  Why?”

“No idea. I certainly wouldn’t be attempting it and certainly not tonight.”

“What is… oh, yes, Halloween.”

“Not just Halloween, Napoleon, but supposedly the time when the veil between this world and the next is at its thinnest.”

“You’re channeling your gypsy blood again, aren’t you?”

Illya smiled. “Okay, I recognize the taller guy.  I ran afoul of him in Calcutta.”

“Swayze?  Didn’t he threaten to peel you like a grape if he ever caught you again?”

“I’ve still got a sore spot from his first attempt.” Illya adjusted the focus, then stopped to clean the lenses. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Everything went blurry.”

“Maybe you need to see the optometrist when we get back. That’s the second thing that’s affected your vision.”

“My vision is just fine.” Illya propped his elbows up on a convenient headstone and looked again.  “I’m not sure about his companions, but it could be Lagario, Bellarusa, and Sanguinetti.”

“Lag… why would he be paling around with the _Trio_ _italiano_ _?_ They’re assassins, not grave robbers.”

“No idea. Now we know why Waverly sent us and no one else.”

“Covert attack? Take them down and take them home?”

“Or find out what they are doing here to begin with and then proceed with Plan A?” Illya reached for his gun and started.  “My pistol.”

Napoleon check his holster. His was empty as well.  “Wait a minute.  I know I had it when I got here.”

“As did I.” Illya searched the ground and then the holster again. 

“I have mine.”

Illya looked from his holster to the weapon held by one of their enemy, Marco Lagario. “Hello, Marco.” He raised his hands over his hand. 

Marco sneered and answered with a right cross. Illya staggered back a step and Napoleon tried to intervene, but his path was blocked by the other two THRUSH henchmen.  Illya regained his balance and wiped the trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth.  “I’ll take it that you missed me.”

“Not half as much as Mr. Swayze did.” Lagario gave him a non-too-gentle pat down to check for weapons, then prodded Illya with his pistol.  “Move.”

The THRUSH leader smiled at their approach. “How good to see you again, Mr. Kuryakin.  I can’t tell you how much your leaving us pained me.”

“I know how much it pained me.”

“And this must be your partner, Napoleon Solo.” He reached out a hand.  “I’ve always wanted to meet you, ever since I was a lowly THRUSH grunt.”

“Now you will die a happy man.” Napoleon ignored the gesture.  “What are you doing here, Swayze?”

That garnered him his own right cross. “That’s Mr. Swayze,” Sanguinetti hissed.

“The boys do have the proper upbringing. We may be enemies, but that doesn’t mean we have to dispense with manners.”  Swayze explained as Napoleon recovered.  Bellarusa and Sanguinetti returned to their task of forcing open the mausoleum’s door.

He readjusted his coat, noting that his weapon had since returned. At least that gave him a glimmer of hope.  “My apologies.”

“Accepted. As to your question, I came across some interesting information while doing some research.  Did you know that they buried Hambleton with his diary?”  He grabbed Illya’s chin and squeezed, his finger digging into the agent’s skin.  “Imagine it, Mr. Kuryakin.  All those glories moments documented and just waiting for me.  Can you even guess at what genius tortures he created to make the strongest man buckle?”

“I have a bad feeling I’m going to find out.”

“Got it, Mr. Swayze,” Bellarusa shouted and they all turned.

“He was one of the worse abominations this country has ever seen.”

“Exactly! We are kindred souls!”  He snapped his finger at Lagario.  “Watch them.”

Swayze cautiously entered the mausoleum, flanked by the other two THRUSH agents and for a long moment, the UNCLE agents were alone with just Lagario.

“Listen,” Illya said suddenly.

“What is it? I don’t hear nothing,” Lagario said.

“Exactly. It’s gotten dead quiet, in a manner of speaking.”

“You’re right, Illya.” Napoleon moved uneasily.  It was as if a blanket of silence had been pulled over them.

Swayze emerged from the mausoleum, holding something in his hands. “I have it, Mr. Kuryakin.  Oh, to think of the happy times ahead.”

“Boss, look.” Sanguinetti pointed.  Walking through the cemetery was a pale figure, translucent one moment, solid the next.  He was wearing a kilt and a very serious expression.

“He doesn’t look happy,” Illya said to Napoleon.

“His resting place has just been desecrated. I wouldn’t be happy either.”

“Nonsense! He’s come to congratulate me.  We are two of a kind!  Kindred souls. Ludovic Hambleton, I salute you and your genius!”

The ghost looked at them and sneered as he hurried towards them. With cries of panic, the _Trio_ _italiano_ fled the scene, leaving Swayze alone.

Swayze reached out his arms and with a roar, the ghost suddenly enveloped him. Swayze staggered back into the masoleum and cried out.

“Should we help him?” Illya pulled out his Walther.

“Napoleon looked at the pistol. “What’s that for?  I think the ghost is probably already dead.”

“I want to make sure it doesn’t vanish again.”

They both hurried to the masoleum and looked inside. On the floor, in a shaft of moonlight lay the diary, but the crypt was otherwise empty.

Napoleon pulled a flashlight out and shined it around. Likewise, Illya holstered his weapon and did the same thing.

“Where could he be?  A man can’t just vanish.”

“Can’t he? Illya, look at this.”  Napoleon pointed his beam at a marker.

“Randolph Swayze, born 1924, died October 31, 196... Napoleon, that’s tonight.”

Wordlessly, Napoleon hurried to the crypt entrance and slammed to such an abrupt stop that Illya plowed into the back of him and made him stumble forward.

“What’s wrong?” Illya hissed, then he saw what had made Napoleon stop. Standing in the graveyard were men, many men, some black, some white, some old, others younger, but all very much dead.

“Thank you for your help,” Napoleon addressed the nearest ghost, a tall young black man. “You spared many your fate.”

The man nodded and slowly they faded from view. When the last vanished, the night seemed to come back to life, with crickets chirping and leaves rustling.

“I cannot wait to give this report to Mr. Waverly.” Napoleon hurried back to their stake out spot and quickly gathered their supplies.  “How about a drink, Partner Mine?”

“How about several? What did we just experience back there, Napoleon?”

“Justice, to my way of thinking. Hambleton claimed Swayze and his victims sent them both to Hell or wherever might be appropriate for monsters like them.”

“Some night, huh?” Illya asked as they headed back to their car.

“Yeah, some night.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
